


Tails, you lose

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Series: Prank wars [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fellatio, Fluff and Smut, Flustered Dean, Loss of a Friend, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Prank Wars, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Reader-Insert, Sex, Sexual Content, Smut, Wakes & Funerals, Winchesters being juvenile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-29 20:05:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5140820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam argue over you, but you chose Dean and Sam pranks him in response</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Special Cultural warning: I do not speak or read Greek. I guessed about this from a teeny amount of research. My apologies.
> 
> Cross posted from my tumblr account

Last Winter, you missed classes to come home.  You only had time to change before going to the funeral home for the surreal experience of Patricia’s service.  

Patricia was the one friend who got you for who you were.  You were one of those kids who loved a secret club.  Within a day of thinking up a name you had rewritten the alphabet, dropped a decoder grid in mailboxes and begun distributing cryptic, coded messages to club members detailing the inaugural meeting.  Patricia would be there at the nominate day and time, waiting in the grove or wherever, shuffling awkwardly over how to explain that the others couldn’t figure out the message - “They all said it’s like homework on vacation time,” she’d reluctantly report.  And then happily nut out the codes you’d created the night before.

She’d passed away from an animal attack.  You kept waiting for her to come sit by you so you could tell her all about this crazy rumour that she was dead and get a load of all these people, Jesus.  You completed the visit, and the term, numb and focusing on your studies, passing easily, supplementing your mental health with escapism, namely hours of Greek myths and other supernatural rumours.

The short visit home for Easter turned out harder than you expected, so coming back for the whole summer was near dreaded.  You were meant to be having cold beers by the lake, comparing notes about your linguistics course and Trish’s anthropology studies.  But Fiona had called before exams; her mom says that your mom is worried about you and did you want to hang out a bit once you got back.  “Yeah, Fi, I really think I will,” you sighed.

Then on the day she’d returned home,  Fiona had disappeared too, her messy body discovered days later.

Now you are in Fiona’s front yard, twisting your fingers as you waited your turn to talk to her mother.  Surrounded by uniforms and suits, you let Mrs Morris cling to you and sob, let her hold what feels so like her daughter, someone who’s also changed a surprising amount since March, and you desperately try to not think of your mom as tears drop onto your chest.  

You go back to your car and pull out the homemade tray bake – the special ingredients being thanks to God and tears, best you could hear – and leave it on their kitchen bench with the post-it on top and card from you listing all the wonderful things you can recall about her Fiona.

As you descend the steps and try to wind your way through the business, two guys in suits (you should say men, but they look your age) start walking towards you.  Shame smacks you in the face as you find yourself distracted at their handsome forms – each different but almost equally so.  One is quite tall, with shaggy hair and tight dimples.  He looks straight from a surfer catalogue, a la Point Break in that suit.  The other, slightly shorter, walks like a cowboy, one of those guys on screen who’re all threat and trouble, right up till the lips and eyelashes.  Christ in a pear tree, they are distracting.

“Excuse me ma'am?” the shorter one says.  Your insides near liquefy right there – that voice, and him looking straight at you.  Not one guy in your life has paralysed you like this.   _This one’s definitely a man._

“Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?” They both flash badges and you still can’t believe they are old enough to be doing this, let alone be FBI.

“Sure,” you reply.

“I’m Agent Wilson, this is Agent Bell,” he continues. “Did you know Fiona well?”

“Uh, I knew her pretty well in high school,” you begin, and Agent Bell smiles at you.  Instantly he becomes the cutest guy you’ve ever seen. _What the hell was the universe doing putting these two together?  Surely they’re chasing their own tails with the dead women they must leave in their wake._

You collect yourself and continue.  “I mean, since then we caught up on the phone sometimes but we mostly talked about high school friends. She was pretty evasive about how she spent her time.”  Truth was, you’d gotten the impression Fiona’s life had become pretty racy, and she hadn’t wanted to share that with the hometown crew, the whole theme making you a little rosy.

“Evasive?” Agent Wilson repeats.

“Private,” you clarify.

Agent Wilson’s face twitches a little.  Seems he can guess what kind of life you mean.  Seems he’s pretty okay with that, too.

“So, is there anything about her trip home you think is worth mentioning?” he continues.

“Um, honestly? No, she barely got a chance to be home,” you shrug and forget, for a moment, that you’re talking to strangers.  “She did ask if we could catch up, called a few weeks ago, coz she thought I might be lonely.  Wish we’d been better friends, really.”

“What would make her think you were lonely?” Agent Bell asked.

You realise then what you’d said aloud.  Did it really matter?  

It wouldn’t normally be his business, but you actually have an answer. “My friend, my oldest friend really, she passed away, just after Christmas… the same way actually.”

The agents pause together.  “Two women killed within a year,” Agent Wilson summarises, “doesn’t seem that common in a small town.”

“Should fucking hope not,” you say, surprising yourself.  You swallow and shake it off.  “No, it’s animal attacks.  They’re looking into it.”

The Agents give a half nod and fall quiet.  Agent Bell shifts the files in his hands and you notice the script on one page.

“Is that Greek?” you blurt, instantly frowning at your own lack of control.

“Uh, yeah, do you read Greek?” he asks with a gaze that wasn’t the slightest bit professional. “I’m still getting it down.”

“Yeah, pretty well,” you answer.

“Sorry, what’s your name?” he checks.

“Y/N L/N.”

“Do you have time to take a look at this, Y/N?” he holds it out.

“Actually, not at the moment. I have to run an errand for my mom-”

“How about later,” Agent Wilson suggests smoothly.  “Would you mind swinging by our motel room after lunch?”

It feels strange, but you can’t pinpoint why.  “Okay,” you agree.

He scribbles the motel and room number on a slip and hands it to you. “My number’s on there, just text when you’re on your way,” he smiles and you know he didn’t wink but it freaking _feels_ like he did.

Later that day you let him know you’re in transit.  “There in 10,” says his reply.  

When Agent Wilson opens the door he’s in jeans and t-shirt with a layered flannel hanging open and he looks completely different.  Scratch that, completely _right_. Whatever that suit was doing for him before had nothing on this get up.  The rolled back sleeves, his lower neck revealed and the amulet around it, his bulky watch… it did things to the corners of your body.  “Hey, come in,” he smiles easily.  “You want a beer?”

You eye him suspiciously.  “FBI usually offers beers to interviewees… in their motel rooms?”

“Yeah, well, we’re not known for our conforming ways at the bureau,” he smirks and finds a bottle in the fridge.

Agent Bell is peering at his hand holding an empty beer bottle in his lap, almost out of sight behind the table top.  You can’t figure out why he doesn’t just move his thumb so he can read the label, but slowly you see he’s wiping at it with a q-tip.  It looks, by all appearances, that he’s trying to separate his hand from the bottle with a solvent.  He sees you come in and stops, deciding to pretend nothing is odd.  His partner smirks at him as he sits at the table, gesturing for you to join them.

“Hi Y/N,” Agent Bell flashes that cutie smile and says  “I made you a copy of the text.”  He faffs around with a Manilla folder to find the page he wants, a completely impractical thing to do one-handed except that you’re pretty sure to the other is glued to the bottle.

You quietly take the page and look it over.  It’s a mix of modern and ancient Greek, which is odd.  He asks “What do you think?”

“Some of it-” you mutter thoughtfully, “Some of it is ancient Greek… I have some books at home, for me to be sure…”

The Agents look at each other and Bell suggests, “Would you like a day to look at it? It sure would help us with the investigation…”

“Of course,” you nod.

“How about a brunch at that big diner tomorrow?” Agent Wilson offers. He leans forward and the offer seems to have nothing to do with business at all.  “Over by that truck stop.  Fill us in over some waffles?” he suggests.  

You look back at the print and hope your cheeks aren’t as red as they feel.  “Yep,” you say lightly. “Sure.”

Wilson leans back and drinks, grinning at Bell as Bell scowls back.  

Wilson tilts the bottle up to his lips and you see a strip of belly revealed by his t-shirt. Normally, discretion would make you look away, but the raw edge of the grey fabric is too distracting.

Now it’s Wilson’s turn to notice you frowning and follows your gaze to his gut.  “Sam!!” he yells.

“Well, what the hell is this?” Sam yells back, holding up his glued hand.

Wilson buttons up his flannel as curtly as buttons can be buttoned, his dinted jaw jutting at Sam.

They both, momentarily, remember you’re there and flick their eyes between the table, each other and you, taking deep abashed breaths.

“We’ve been working together a long time,” Sam sighs.

“You’re my age,” you say, disbelieving this scene, “barely.  How long could you have worked together?”  They both look at you and lick their lips, waiting for you to say something else.

“It’s his baby soft skin,” Wilson explains, but decides to wrap it up anyway, clearing his throat as he stands.  “So, diner tomorrow, say 10:30?”

You rise too and head for the door.  “Sure, sounds good,” you say. You wave the page at Sam and nod and smile.  He nods back, unconsciously waving the bottle at you and quickly looking exasperated.

Wilson shepherds you into the doorway and out of Sam’s sight.  “You can call me Dean,” he says smoothly.  You look at him and half expect he’s going to woo you with those ridiculously pretty eyes, but he’s just… nice.  Not _nice_ nice, but there’s no swagger, no cockiness, and just for a second he seems to be only looking at you to see who you are.

You take a deep breath and answer “Okay,” smiling and nodding before walking away to your car.  You’re half way across the parking lot before you hear the motel door close.  

* * *

The next day, translated Greek in hand, your brunch at the diner is completely unlike whatever you’d expected.  They’re relaxed and casual with you, but it’s clear from the outset that they’re competing over who’s going to get you to laugh more, who can spark your smile, who has more in common.  Sam appeals to you with cleverness and cuteness, Dean compliments and listens and makes you laugh at things you never imagined you’d give in to, blushing and all.

Within 40 minutes they’re starting to get annoyed with each other and Sam takes a dig at Dean over something the happened a few days ago.

You jump in and redirect the conversation, not wanting anyone embarrassed at your expense _again_. “You said you were looking at Fiona’s _and_ Patricia’s case,” you remind them.  “Patricia’s death is being treated as suspicious?”

They lean on the table to let you have it and for a moment you can only look at their hands and forearms; Sam’s features so long and muscular, but Dean’s are so strong and rugged.  “Y/N, you know how Patricia and Fiona lived on the same street, backing onto the forest?” Dean began.

“Yeah, well, it’s a small town.  No one in my class had a street to themselves,” you explain.

“Fair enough,” he accepts, “but the forest has a few old cabins in there and they’re… not really that empty.”

“You think a murderer is shacked up in the forest?” you infer, completely taken aback that such a thing could happen in your town.

“More or less,” he shrugs.

“Yeah, but not all… murderers are equal,” Sam adds.  “We’re still figuring it out.  Your help has been invaluable, Y/N.  Really.” Sam smiles at you and you smile back, pleased to be useful.  Pleased to make him smile.

Then your brainy brain digs you in the ribs again.  “But why would they call them animal attacks if it’s a person? They don’t stuff that up these days, surely?”

“Yeah, it’s a little more complicated than that,” Sam winces.

You catch sight of your watch and realise your mom will be expecting you any minute.  “Okay, well, I’m glad I could be of help, really,” you say and stand.  “but, I have to go. Sorry.”

“Thanks Y/N,” Sam says earnestly.

“Yeah, thanks so much for your help,” Dean adds as he stands.  “You didn’t have to do anything and it’s been great.”

“No problem,” you dismiss it.  He fills his chest, expecting to speak but has nothing, and puffs it out with a smile. As you look at him politely you realise, unfortunately, you’ve got nothing left to say either… “'Kay… Bye.”  

And you walk out.  

You recognise the black shiny car from Fiona’s – a perfect vintage vehicle – and decide it must be theirs.  You imagine sitting in the bench seats and think you would readily drop your life to look at the back of their heads through every state of the mainland, happy to be dropped off on any roadside should they change their minds.  You are that besotted.

* * *

The next day, Dean calls you.  “Hi Y/N,” you hear and instantly regret not catching that timbre on voicemail.

“Dean! Hi, everything okay?”

“Yeah, we were wondering if you’d look at a little more Greek for us.  Sam here has hit the limit of his skills,” he says.  

You hear Sam’s voice in the background, berating his partner, but you answer, “Yeah, sure.  I can come around now, if it suits.”

“Really? That’d be great,” he says, apparently relieved and you feel a bit warm with it.  “See you soon?”  He sounds so sweet.

“Yeah, on my way,” you answer and as the call is disconnected you wonder, one more time, how the hell they can be FBI agents.

* * *

You knock on their door.  There’s some scuffling on the carpet, a thud against the wall, then another, and it opens to Sam and Dean puffing before you.

You’ve unconsciously taken a step back and have a full, curious view, of them; Dean leaning against the door and Sam leaning against the door frame, both attempting calm and suave.

“Hey Y/N,” Sam heaves.  “Come on in.”  He runs his hands through his hair and they both back up.  Before anyone has even sat down Sam asks “You want a beer? Juice?”

“A juice would be good,” you say.

“Got it,” Sam says and glares at Dean as he goes to the fridge.  You cannot, for the life of you, figure out what’s going on.

Shirts are adjusted and regular cheek colour is restored as Sam bring you a glass of OJ.  “This is the part we need,” he says, turning a laptop to face you, the line highlighted.  Your chest flutters with excitement and you feel instantly juvenile for pretending to be real FBI, decoding mysterious texts, just like you’ve _never_ dreamed of doing ever before in your entire life not once.  

“Oh that’s, hang on,” you run your finger under the script, just to be sure.  “It’s saying _under bridge by night_. They’re using the word link, like earth, link, so I think it’s bridge.”

“I got earth link too,” Sam confirms.

“It’s not earth-link,” you say, “It’s _earth_ , pause, _link_ , like they’re synonyms, the same thing twice.  Not, like, a single stone chain. Sorry, does that make sense?”

“Right,” Sam says, lost in thought and swinging the laptop back to himself.

“Does that fit with the rest?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he thinks, rubs his pointer and thumb nails against his lips, “Yeah, it makes a difference.”  Then he kind of remembers you’re there. “It does fit.  Thank you, it’s awesome,” and twinkles a grateful smile at you.

You have to keep yourself from wiggling in your seat, you’re that chuffed with yourself.  “So, did you want anything else?” you ask hopefully.  Your eyebrows go up and you find yourself looking at the shorter agent, hoping to God that there’s some official reason for them to keep you there.

“Not officially,” he says, and you deflate.

“But, Y/N, what are you doing tonight?” he wonders.

“Dean!” Sam barks.

“What?” Dean snaps back.

Sam glares at him for half a second before twitching violently at the bathroom.  “Can I talk to you for a second?” he asks, so annoyed that he speaks mostly in consonants.

Dean scowls at him and says to you, buttery sweet, “Please excuse us for a moment, Y/N.”

They storm into the bathroom, Sam closing the door way too gently and you sit there, agape, as you listen to an angry, hushed, argument, a kind of “Blah blah _blah BLAH_ blah blah-blah!” rhythm going back and forth.  

Then there’s a beat of silence and one of them says “Fine.”  The door swings open and you inspect your OJ intensely.

“Y/N,” Sam begins, shuffling his weight as they stand on the other side of the table, “we… we’re… we’re not-”

“We’re brothers,” announces Dean.

“Right,” you answer,  “Yeah, of course!”

“Yeah,” Sam says, his hands going to his hips.  “So, we’re a little competitive.”

“Uh-huh.” _Got that._

“Yeah, and so… working together…” he gestures at nothing in particular.  Dean’s eyes flit over the carpet while he waits for him to get to the point, which takes a while.

“Ugh my God,” Dean rubs his brow, “So I was going to ask you out. Tonight.  But Sam here had the same idea.”

“Y/N,” Sam interrupts, “I’m sorry, this is juvenile, but it’s the probably the best solution.  Do you like either of us more than the other…?” and he just lets that hang there.  Both of them do, and look at you from tilted, hopeful heads.

You take a minute to understand, enough to be sure.  “Seriously?” you say, voice nearly off the register.  “You want me to pick one of you?   _Romantically_?”

“Yeah,” Sam says solemnly.  “Yes.”

Dean seems to be wincing.  He’s already swallowed once or twice and is starting to look at the middle distance, now the door.  So Sam’s hopeful eyes are on you and you look at his sweetness and kind of… apologise with your face.  You drag your lower lip over your teeth, wince your cheeks and shrug every so slightly.  Sam slowly begins to nod, pursing his lips and then he seems resigned to it. “Okay,” he says.

Dean looks at you, then at Sam who ’s nodding seriously.  “Wait, really?” Dean’s head pops up and he looks back at you to double check.  “Is that his face for ‘you picked me’?”

“Yes,” and you watch him, hoping _hoping hoping_ that he doesn’t make you regret your choice with some dickbaggy show of wankery.  But he stands there and faces Sam to see what his brother will do or say, patiently.  

“Okay then,” Sam says.  “So you two are going out tonight.”

“Hang on,” Dean pats his hands on the air, “she hasn’t said yes yet.”

You feel pretty bad still, so just quietly nod your head at him.  He smiles at you, a smile you haven’t met yet.  It’s even and friendly, just a hint of anticipation and he’s officially the best looking guy you’ve ever seen, in person or on your wall.  

Sam takes the seat at the table that’s opposite you, but turns it out to lean back.  Dean sits on the end of the nearest bed.  He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees and you notice the tightness of his clothes on his shoulders, then on his thighs, and you feel anticipation welling.

“Is there actually anywhere to go to around here?” Dean asks.

You start hesitantly, a little uncomfortable about planning a date in front of Sam, so stand and make your way to the door, drawing the conversation to a more private space.  “So, there’s really only one bar in town, Mitchell’s.  It’s at the north end near the highway exit.  There’s a restaurant now too, um, think it’s called Apropo or something terrible.  But really, those are the only places to go after dark.  Everywhere else, well,” you shrug, “that’s where my parents or their friends will be.”

“Right,” says Dean, standing before you.  “How about eight then? Meet here?”

“Sure,” you nod, his eye contact almost making you fumble the door handle. “Sorry, Sam.”

“Don’t worry about it, Y/N,” he waves you off from his chair.  “Thank you so much for the help, though.  Seriously.”

“Anytime,” you say honestly.  It’s the weirdest apology-slash-thank-you conversation you’ll ever have.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, “That’s gonna make a helluva difference.”  

As you stand on the pavement and turn to say bye, he pulls the door nearly closed behind him.  You take a tight breath and try to think of something to say.  But all you’ve got is, “So, at eight.”

Dean smiles and twitches a little upward nod in confirmation, then watches you head back to your car.

* * *

At 8:05, you knock on their door.  Sam opens it saying “Y/N, Hi!” and is instantly out of sight.  He leaves the door open and you tentatively step in to see him shoving things into a large duffel bag, metal and wood knocking against itself.  Their bags are poorly packed and a few muddy clothes stick out the zips.  Sam has a new scratch on his forehead but it’s not bad.  He’s pulling on his boots saying “How you doin’?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer, wondering what the hell their afternoon was about.

“Sorry, work dragged on a bit.”  He lunges over to the bathroom and knocks. _“Dean! Y/N’s here!”_

Dean’s voice is surprisingly loud and gruff through the door.  “This is why I shoulda gone first!” he growls.

You stand there in your snug jeans and boots, your hair looking pretty casual for something that took the better part of an hour, and you hope the white top with the inlay-lace isn’t too much.  No where in town is very fancy, so it’s easy to max out on the frills with your urban clothes.

“You look awesome, Y/N,” Sam says, like he can read your mind.

“Thanks Sam,” you blush.  “You too.”

He grins at you, all forgiveness complete and grabs his wallet.   _“Okay, Dean, I’m leaving!”_

“Sam!” you hear him call.   _“Sam!”_

But Sam’s already out the door behind you.  Dean pops his head out, a rectangular patch of shaving cream presenting a white goatee.  “Won’t be a tick, Y/N,” he smiles, impressively confident.  He disappears for an instant, then is back, “You look great, by the way,” and grins at you.  Even with the Colonel Sanders chin you can’t help but smile back.

The bathroom door slams.  “Thanks,” you call.  You sigh and sit on the bed. And wait.

Soon enough he’s re-emerged and to your horror and thrill, he’s only wearing a towel.

“Sorry, Y/N,” he holds a hand up, “I’m so sorry, but Sam has…” he digs around the clothes on the floor beyond the other bed, “Sam’s been…” then finds his boxers and sits down, facing away.  “Sam has been a little bitch,” he grinds out, yanking on his underwear under the towel.

“Sorry,” he repeats, getting himself together a little.  “You’ve kind caught us in the middle of a prank war.”

“Oh,” you say and instantly understand so much.  “The bottle the other day-”

“Super-glue,” he explains.

“And your short shirt-”

“Yeah, that too.”

“And tonight he muscled you out of the shower to make you late,” you figure.

“So it seems,” he nods, pulling his jeans up and over his knees.  “It’s not that he’s sour about you picking me,” he flaps his legs down the pants, “it’s just that any opportunity-” still flapping, “…to embarrass-” he’s starting to bend and straighten like his mermaid costume is too tight. “What the hell?”  He leans down to inspect the pants and finds they’re stapled closed, whispering “Son of a bitch!”  He glances at you cautiously and discretely yanks the cuffs apart, giving you a free show of his damp shoulder blade muscles glistening as he works.

You swallow and work on looking at the not funny decor.

Dean picks up his grey t-shirt and pulls it over his head ( _Bye, bye rippling back_ , you think) saying “Yeah, we’ve got a bit of cabin fever going on.” He stands and collects his shirt, a plain navy one with a button down collar.  “And I know I shouldn’t encourage it,” he says maturely, “but… I just get such good ideas.” And he cracks what you think must be his tried and true prize-winning, blue-ribbon, where’s-my-fan, panty-dropping smile.  

He shrugs his shirt up his arms, tries again, frowns at himself, shrugs the unmoving shirt one more time, then turns his fabric-covered fist towards his face and sees a kind of blue sock-puppet looking at him. He’s perplexed for a moment, poking at the tucked cuff with his other fabric-stump, and finds the sleeves have been stapled shut too.

“Asshole!” he mutters.

“Would you like some help?” you stand to offer.

“No-no!” he turns to face the wall and, with his collar still around his shoulders, he uses a combination of teeth and fingernails to undo the six or so staples and get his hands beyond the cuffs.  It’s not graceful.

“Right!” he announces, apparently finished.  You decide to not mention the little hooks of metal hanging near the button.  He begins to roll back the sleeves, to his elbow, and you completely forget about staples because those forearms really are like ropes.   _Holy hell_.  

He does up his shirt buttons and tucks himself in, then grabs his wallet and slips it into his back pocket once, twice, again - “ _Fuck!_ ” He twists around to look at his butt, giving you a good view of his waist and the curve of his ass.

He finds a layer of  cello-tape over the pocket. “ _Goddam_ it!!” he whines, peeling the plastic away.

“He’s certainly handy with the office supplies,” you comment.

“Yeah,” Dean grumps and takes a deep breath. He looks at you and how you’re standing now, doing your best to not find anything slightly, even remotely, not at all amusing.  Your lips have pretty much disappeared into your head.

He sticks his jaw out and pouts thoughtfully.  “Still think you picked the right guy?” he squints.

“You mean you over the evil genius?” you ask. “Yeah, no regrets yet.”

He huffs a breath saying “Good to know,” and smiles at you again. If he keeps doing that you’re going to start sighing whenever you see his teeth.  “I’m really glad you picked me,” he says quietly, sparking a moment of intimacy. You lean into your toes.

“Well, you picked me too,” you say.  “Feeling pretty complimented over here.”  You look around the room a little then ask, “When are you guys leaving?”

“Uh, tomorrow, actually,” he says, kind of like an apology. “We knocked off the… the job this afternoon.  Got another about a day’s drive away.”

“Right,” you nod and consider that this may be excellent news, to be honest. Of the few flings you’ve had at college, none of them had gotten you this excited this quickly.  You only hope he feels the same way.

He sits on the end of the bed, his boots already before him, and gets a foot in one.  “So Mitchell’s is the bar, right?”

“Yeah. Pretty much the only place for anyone under forty, all 80s and 90s music with a huge dance floor.

“Really,” he sounds a little doubtful.

“Yeah. Half 'Let us host your shit-hole-themed wedding’, half country dive.”

You can’t help but flash back to the memories of your friends dancing with you, the space so large that big, exaggerated interpretive dance became a way to mock and enjoy the ridiculous expanse.  You’re not sure you want to be back there tonight.

“Well, beggars can’t be choosers; Mitchell’s it is,” he says, yanking on the last of the laces.  He stands to go saying “Shall weOAH GOD!” His arms freestyle over his head, hands land on the carpet, and he’s flop-folded over on the spot, ass up.

“ _Woah my god!_ ” you cry, then start to laugh, finally, as he bends his knees to crouch.  “I’m sorry!  Sorry!” you say between your giggles and reach over to collect his arm and help him stand upright.  

His face is flushed as he gestures at his feet.  “He _fucking nailed my boots to the floor_!”

“Yes he did,” you laugh.

“These are my _good_ boots!”

“Mm-hmm,” you laugh through your lips, his hand still gripping yours.  

“Fucking hell!” he barks.

You move to stand in front of him, not even trying to hide your aching cheeks, and say “It’s okay,” just coz that’s what you should say.

“It’s not- _Y/N_ ,” he calms a little and levels with you.  “They’re ruined.”

“Yeah,” you admit, a little more seriously, “yeah, true.  That’s a bit shit.”

“ _Very_ ,” he says emphatically.  He looks past your head and licks his lips, thinking of how to get a handle on this evening again and retrieve his dignity, if it’s even still here.  You reign yourself in, the odd _m-hmm-hmm_ bouncing out of you.  Dean tries not to fume.

It’s a strangely reassuring situation though.  Dean presents as so seductive, that perfectly proportioned face, his confidence, and a gorgeously well built body… a bit of awkwardness has been equalising for you.  And _he’s_ asked _you_ on a date, when he’s leaving _tomorrow_ … so what else is this evening about?

“Have you considered though,” you say carefully, almost calm, “Sam may be the best wingman you’ve ever had?”


	2. Chapter 2

_“Have you considered though,” you say carefully, almost calm, “Sam may be the best wingman you’ve ever had?”_

Dean looks down at you, his eyebrows twitching curiously.  “By ruining all my nice clothes?”

“I don’t really want to go to Mitchell’s tonight,” you say quietly, and thread your fingers into his other hand too, “and it seems you can’t actually get out the door.”

He’s reading you, open and waiting, since you seem to have taken the wheel.

You step closer, inches from him and trip a little on the fragrance of aftershave, laundry and the pre-sweat musk of someone who’s struggled to dress themselves.  He watches you take a moment and look up at him hopefully.  His gaze shuffles between your eyes and mouth and he seems to be leaning for you a bit.

“In fact,” you tiptoe a little, putting yourself in easy kissing distance and feel his hands hold yours tighter, “you can’t move much at all.”  

You lean up, or he leans down…   _Good Lord._  

He’s soft and easy, shifting his lips a little to catch yours.

You pull back and take proper look at that gorgeous mouth, recalibrating your expectations for the next time.  For everything. “What if you didn’t get out of those boots for a while?” you wonder.

His eyebrows twitch up.  “You don’t wanna go out?”

You twitch your head ‘no’ and shuffle a little bit closer, your chest now brushing against his, and you try memorising his neck and jaw, the close shave, where his hairline finishes.  He looks down between you, surveying the situation and his fingertips slide up your arms.  Your eyes make their way to his, losing a fat few seconds on the shades of green and beautiful eyelashes at such close range, and you feel the overwhelming urge to latch onto his mouth again.  

But you don’t because you think you might knock him off balance. Instead, you chew your lip, not realising the tilt of your eyebrows is giving away so much want, and Dean’s slowly comprehending you might be very, _very_ keen about this.  Yet he can only manage to ask “You wanna stay in?”  

“…I want to staple your t-shirt to the mattress,” you say quietly, and look up at him hoping you’re not getting too weird too soon.  “But I kinda doubt that would hold you.”

He flexes his jaw and swallows.  “It will if you want it to,” he says softly.  “I’d do my best to stay put.”

Your gaze pauses, somewhere around his Adam’s apple, because you’ve never said anything like that before.  What’s possessing you to speak so creatively now is beyond you.  All your other experiences have been pretty vanilla, and you wouldn’t even know what to do with sprinkles. (Although there was that one guy who wanted you to call him Daddy which wasn’t sexy but _was_ distracting and ridiculous, at least with him, and you’d tried so hard to get into it.  You really had wanted something a bit different… )  Maybe it’s just that you figure surely a guy this good looking must have a fair repertoire by now, if he’s into that sort of thing.

Your heart thumps like a clock, prompting you to speak.  “I’m not… I haven’t really played around much,” you admit.

“Uh huh,” he says, leading you through your confession.  “That’s okay.  Regular stuff is just fine… other stuff is fine too…”

You look up at him again – at an opportunity that’s just crying out to be taken with both hands and two legs - and form a fuzzy plan of baby steps. “Okay… so maybe I might try some things… Just tell me how I’m going okay?”

“Will do,” he assures.  You kiss him, and since he doesn’t change the kiss or work against you, you assume he’s letting you lead.  

So you try it and see what its like to be the instigator, to lay down the next step and see if he’ll take it.  You slip your tongue between your lips and feel his.  They part and you lick again at his lower lip, flipping your tip past it to his teeth.  You swipe along the upper, then change – that perfect kissing sound snapping between you – and tilt to come back, open mouthed and reaching a bit further.  You find his tongue waiting for you, and lap up the centre of the roughness, tickling behind his upper teeth as you pull back. He sucks his breath and makes a noise that’s higher than any you’d expected.  Your hands cup his jaw and the back of his head, thumbs and fingertips caressing, and you land on him again, sucking his lower lip for a second, then kiss again and take a plump corner between your teeth, with gentle pressure, as you hold him still and tug.  He makes another noise and you open your eyes to see his are closed, brow furrowed.  You slow, then let go, and place a firm tongue-tipping kiss to the corner of his mouth.  His hands are hovering somewhere around your waist or arms and you worry for the second it takes him to to look at you.

“Staples,” he licks his lips and swallows, “staples won’t be strong enough by half.”

He rests his hands on your waist and squeezes, almost too tightly, and exhales heavily through his nose while he gazes at you.

“I feel like there’s some sort of advantage to be taken here, with your boots,” you explain.

“I’m not sure I’m going to feel taken advantage of, Y/N,” he says.

You peek down and slip your fingers behind his belt buckle, taking note of lopsided way his jeans have begun to fill out in front.  You have an idea and although you’re hesitant to be so brazen, you figure the chances of him baulking at any suggestion you’ll throw at him are that small you decide to fuck it and offer it all, see what happens.

With the hand still in his hair, you pull him down so you can kiss at the bolt of his jaw, tight nipping kisses that work up to his ear.  You lick up the shell and he shudders.  Then you suck his lobe between your teeth before holding it and saying “I’d like to suck your cock.”

His fingers spread on your back and he pulls you against him, his breath dragging in and out.  You lean back to look at him and get an eye-full of lashes fanned over his cheeks as he clenches his jaw. “Y/N,” he says, lower than you’ve heard him yet. “You’re going really well.”

“Yeah?”

“Fucking yes.”

You watch him look at you as you undo his pants and ease them past his hips.  As you nose under his jaw, you steadily drag the heels of your hands up his torso, one over his belly and the other up the shallow valley of his spine, so that you can catch his boxers as you slide your hands down, fanning your fingers to collect the waistbands and push it all down.  You let one hand slide over a cheek – curvy enough to test your wrist’s flex – and pull the front forward so his erection can come free without much contact, dropping it all over his boots.

You kneel on the carpet and drift your fingertips over the hair on this thighs.  He undoes his shirt so the tails hang to the sides, and catches your fingertips as they come within reach.

“Would you mind, please,” he asks politely, “…your top.”

“Sure,” you say obligingly.  You shift back a little, his hands following you till you’re out of reach, and you sit on your feet, your knees spread and thighs tight in your jeans.  You cross your arms across your body and collect the hem, pulling your top up at an even pace, and drop it behind you once it’s free.

You pause a second while his eyes run over you like a paint brush.  He gives you a grateful smile.

“This too?” you ask, taking up the clasp between the cups.  You squish your breasts together, ready to unhook it and look at him.

“Oh, no you don’t-” he waves a hand at you, “have t- …oh.” He gives in as you open the bra, your breasts easing apart and dropping slightly as they’re released.

“Mm, okay,” he sighs, that waving hand now reaching a bit, opening and closing absently.  “Could I-”  You grab his knees firmly, and kneel before him again, a sad “Okay, sure” coming from above.  

He’s a bit tall for you, especially in the boots, but you hope it just means a bit of a show.  You kiss about the tops of his thighs a little but soon nuzzle into the curls and kiss, nudging his balls and sliding your hands up the back of his legs, hugging him to you firmly.  His hands come to your hair, but don’t thread or hold, just brush and sweep as you begin.

Your kisses become a bit firmer, and then you lightly lick up the seam of his balls, listening to him take a heaving breath.  You do it again, more firmly, with the flat of your tongue and he opens his mouth to breathe.  Then you take one of his balls into your mouth, tonguing it so gently before easing it out, and regret nothing at the noise he makes; a trembling groan as his hands hover over your head.

You drag a hand around his leg and wrap your fingers around the base of his cock.  He sucks on his teeth and you tilt it down to your lips. You lean away from him a little so you can reach the tip, and you look up to see him look down.  His lips are swollen and his eyebrows tilt.  You nibble around the rim of his head and his eyes fix on your lips and tongue working over the silken skin.  His voice starts waking as you work.  You begin to lick the length underneath and caress his sac as you go.  

“Fuck, Y/N, that feels good.”

“Good… but you’re too tall here,” you say, your lips against him.  You reach up between his legs and grab a handful of t-shirt and shirt from his back.  With a firm hand around his knee, you pull the fabric, folding him backwards to bounce flat on the bed, and his shins haven’t moved an inch.  You take a firm hold behind his knees and jerk his butt to the edge of the bed, spreading his legs.

His head pops up to look at you. “Holy shit that’s a good move.”

“Thanks,” you breath over his groin and finally get a good grip before slipping your lips over the head and swirling your tongue around.  He drops his head and moans freely as you lick and suck, nibble and kiss, and after a while you lazily drag your hand up and down the shaft.

“Dean?” you ask, pecking around his belly, down near the hair.

“Yeah,” he puffs.  

“It’s not that you’re some sort of ride for the night or anything,” you begin, “but I’ve heard that, sometimes, something extra down here feels nice.”

You hear him close his mouth and breathe through his nose.  “Yeah,” he says steadily. “I have too… and I have, but… it was a bit…”

“Not for you?” you say helpfully.

“I dunno… it mighta been her,” he seems to be thinking carefully.

You caress as you speak, your breath blowing over the fuzz.  “If you like… How about… I use only one finger, at least for a while, with lots of spit, and I take ages.  Keep me posted and tell me if you change your mind,” you suggest, your ministrations just about paused while he thinks.

His breathing is almost normal again, but he’s still there. “That sounds good.”  

“Okay,” you say gently, your throat vibrating against his balls as you say, “Just say when, if you need.”  

“Mmm” you hear.

You kiss his cock gently, giving his hand a kind squeeze before you do anything, and keep yourself slow and steady.  You settle into a regular soothing sequence of licking and kissing around his cock and his belly, brushing your fingers down over his balls and then along his perineum.  You stroke there for a while and wait to see if his legs will relax any more.

You generously wet your middle finger and slide it back and forth towards his ass, kissing his thigh and waiting.  When you get there you slow right down and rub little circles over the puckered skin.  Again you spit onto your finger and rub some more, coming back to kiss and lick his cock for a while.

“How you going?” you ask softly.

“Good, Y/N,” he sighs, “really good.”

“Keep going?”

“Yeah.”

You add a little pressure and find he gives quite easily, so dip your finger in and out, then again, and start taking it to your first knuckle on a steady rhythm.  He sighs a long, deep moan and wiggles his hips a little, which you take as encouragement to go a little deeper, spitting on your finger again to keep things slippery and easy, idly licking around the head of his erection.  At the second knuckle you try curving your finger, wondering what’s where, sliding your fingertip along the wall as lightly as you can.  You quickly find what you assume is his prostate, not least of all because he sucks in tight breathe and bites down on a small yelp.  His hand snatches around yours and you pause.  His fingers squeeze tighter as he strangles out a  “Don’t stop!”

You wrap your lips around his cock and pull him up for a shallow pump, but begin moving your finger back and forth in a steady rhythm.  He begins a kind of 'ah’ on each out breath and the pitch gradually rises.  You let go of his hand to firmly slide your fingers up and down his shaft and he starts to swear - “God, shit, Y/N!  Ssso good!” - and he rocks his body, down onto your finger then up into your hand and mouth, so you work with his rhythm, the pace steadily building.  

You press slightly harder inside him, less like feeling around and more like fucking, and his volume jumps.  It’s so slippery back there, so easy on your reach, that you slip in your pointer too, almost effortlessly, and brush a _liiiiittle_ harder, and the response is glorious.  He arches his back, bucking against you, yelling  “ _Fuck-_ God! _AH!_ ” so you plunge over him four thrusts later you hear a sharp, shaky inhale as you feel him come in your mouth, his whole lower body shuddering under your coaxing movements, hands grasping at your head while he pitches through his orgasm.

At the first sign of it’s end, you pull your fingers out completely and slide your hand over his thigh, letting his cock rest in your mouth as his tremors subside.  His hands start brushing over your hair and you let him go, laying him on his belly, and take his hand to kiss the palm.  

You lean back on your feet and start undoing his laces while he calms, lifting each leg out of the shoe and sliding off the pants.  You stretch them out and massage his knees a little, then go to the sink to wash your hands and get him a glass of water.

The glass lands on the bedside table a second before you feel him lock onto your waistband, four fingers hooked by your hip, and he yanks you. You get your knee on the bed, that arm of long muscles anchored to you as he scrambles backwards like a squid, coming to kneel up for an all consuming kiss.  It’s long, pressing and ends with moans and knocking foreheads.  “Holy fuck, Y/N,” he growls, and you’re surprised at the energy in it after that show.  “Jesus that was good.”

He leads you to sit between him and the bed head and you look down at his shirt, then your pants, noticing how mismatched you are.

“Well this isn’t right,” he says.  He leans over, kisses your neck and reaches for your boots, hinging them off your heels as he tastes you.

“You just about done having your way with me?” he says against your throat.

He sits back and whips off both shirts over his head, then unfolds your legs in front of you, pulling off your socks.  He crawls over you and you fall back onto your elbows, dumbstruck at the sight of his bare, brawling frame coming towards you like this, predatory and large.  

He plants his fists beside your shoulders and sits on your thighs, a hungry grin scrawled across his face as he looks over you, over your body then back up to your eyes.

You snap your jaw shut and remember to say “Sorry, I wasn’t sure if you’re a twice-in-one-night kinda guy, or even… and then I went and -”

He kisses you, gagging you with his tongue deep and pushes your head back enough for you to drop down onto the bed.  He presses you down with his face saying “Don’t. Apologise.”  He opens his mouth to taste you again and collects your head with his hand, pulling at you so he can kiss you as deeply as he wants.  You feel like your mouth is the only thing above water.

He begins kissing your cheek, then under your chin and asks “What do you want, Y/N?  Tell me how you want to come.”

You breathe and steel yourself a little, realising your hands are on his back and sliding them up a down a little as you figure out how to answer him.  Seems this will be your bravest night ever:  “I don’t… really… come,” you say.

“How so?” Dean asks, his attention to your neck unwavering, his hand beginning to wrap around your waist.

“I don’t think I’m someone who comes,” you say frankly.  

He leans up to look at you, curious and apparently accepting. “Oh,” he says, “so what happens?”

“I seem to just, kind of, plateau,” you say and he looks so thoughtful that you can’t help but go on.  “There’s a buzz, and if things go for long enough, I’m satisfied, but there’s no bursting peak, or anything.”  Quickly, you note “It’s not a challenge.”

“No-no-” he assures.

“That’s too much pressure-”

“No, course not. No you just-”

“And you shouldn’t feel bad,” you warn.

“No,” he says, kind of laughing, “Y/N, don’t worry about it.  Just… just tell me what you like and we’ll do that.”

“Okay,” you say cautiously.

“Anything you like,” he lowers his head to kiss you again.  

He sees you looking at him with a rather hard stare and decides to add “…but I don’t have any toys.”

You blink, shaking off something you can’t even recall and regroup. “Okay, yup,” and pat your hands on his chest while you think. Soon you smile up at him and he smiles at you, then it cracks into a little laugh and he slowly drops his body against yours.  You writhe against his heat and let him kiss you more, about your neck and over your chest.

“I have ideas,” he offers.

“Oh yeah?  …You don’t care about the not coming thing?” you ask.

“Well, it sounds kinda torturous,” he says, kissing over breasts, tipping your nipples a little.  “People talk about edging, holding back an orgasm to tease, and here you are with no choice.  How long can you stand that?”

“I dunno,” you say, your breath starting to tighten with such an inspiring conversation. “No one’s ever tested it.”

He huffs a sigh through his nose with some sort of opinion.  “You mind if I use my mouth?” he asks, his lips working their way down.  He holds your rib cage and lifts a little, eating around your bones.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he kisses next your belly button, “I kinda like it.”

“No one’s ever…”

He groans loudly, dropping his forehead on your stomach, “Fucking hell, Y/N, what college do you go to?”

You laugh at him, which makes his head bounce. “A big one, in a big city.”

“It’s okay,” he collects himself, “I’m okay.”  He tucks his forearm under your waist and slides his body off your legs so he can undo your jeans.  “It’s just, you know, with a bit of attention and creativity, holy crap, it’s the eighth wonder of the world.”

“Shit Dean,” you sigh, trickling your fingertips over his ear, then push your palm down his back.  “Think that’d be you.”

“Huh, nothin’ wondrous about me.  I’m a sucker for praise and cocky as all shit.  Where’s the mystery there?”

“Really? You should’ve said,” you look at him as he wonders what you mean. “You have a beautiful cock, Dean.”  He blinks at you a moment, and you say “The best I’ve ever seen.  There haven’t been many, but I doubt the rest will be that good.  And I don’t think anyone will kiss me like this again though, not without those lips.”  You smile and wait to see if your compliments make a difference.

They do.  Pupils blown, he swallows slackly and tries to shake it off. “Yeah, you’re playin’ with fire there, Y/N.  I’m gonna fucking ravage you if you keep that shit up.”

He gets a grip on the fabric scrunched at your knees and works your jeans down saying “And considering I’ve already blown my load once, for someone who doesn’t come,” then he’s laying against you again, “that may be quite punishing.”

He lays a hand high on your waist and drags it down your belly toward your mound.  His gaze on you is so dark, his body so hot, that the rest of you goosebumps in response and it’s all you can do to keep eye contact.  

His right hand feels large where it stops, right above the waistband of your panties.  He’s practically hugging your right hip, your leg warm beneath him, and he lets a sighing breath wash over you.  He pins you with his gaze and says “So, no one’s ever been here like this before.”

“No.” You’re wondering what the hell to do with your hands.

He drags his palm down, firmly enough that he pushes the panty elastic with the heel of his hand, the pressure sliding over your mound and the nerves beneath, and you suck your breath through your nose at the sensation.  His hand doesn’t stop and as it gets to the gap of your legs he hooks his fingers into the pants to pull them down as far as is they’ll allow, then nudges your other leg up to unthread it from the fabric.

He lays his hand on your belly again and repeats the action, letting his middle finger drop between your labia, lightly dragging over your clitoris, his rough fingertips offering perfect friction.  He slides over and settles between your legs, his head seeming to hang off his shoulders as he rests his chin against you, then kisses over your hair.

“You smell nice,” he says, letting his lips, breath and bass tickle as he talks.

You just watch and try to manage your nerves.  But then he looks up, locking your gaze again, and watching suddenly seems both impossible and inescapable as his mouth opens and his tongue drops down onto you, sinking between your lips.  He finds your clitoris in a second, and everything about you tightens, but you can’t not look.  

He drags his tongue down towards your entrance, then back up, and on the next drag back he closes his eyes, nudges his lips between yours to place his mouth over your clit and inner folds, and _sucks_.

The noise you make is not punched or gasped but pulled from you, just a breath of voice with barely a beginning or end.  You have a distant thought that sighs “Yes… _that_.”

He suckles at you and you arch your back, slipping your fingertips into his hair and closing your eyes to take in the privilege of a generous man’s ears against your thighs.

Dean begins rocking his face against you, creating a rhythm with your pelvis that has you thinking of penetration.  Instead his fingers find your folds, holding them open while he nibbles at you and he starts to lick lightly at your clit.  It’s almost tapping, almost nipping, and you’re beginning to make aching noises, your fingers pulling at him more than caressing.  He holds you still as he flicks his tongue back and forth and you start to use his name, start to plead with words.

He glances up for the view; it’s a horizon of heaving ribs and breasts, your chin working between jutting and dropping, your spare hand clenching in the air.  He slips his fingers down to your opening and slides one, then two, out then in again, then curves and pushes his knuckles against you, massaging the flesh beneath his chin.

“Oh God, Dean,” you moan, and he finds that spot in you, the one he’s sucking on from the front, and rubs.  “ _AH_ Fuck!  Dean!”  On and on he pushes, deep, nudging thrusts while steady caresses work over your clitoris.  The pleasure is an order of magnitude greater than any you’ve experienced yet and you can feel the buzz from nipples to knees.  You start to plead in earnest, “ _Please_ Dean!  Uh, please, … _you_ ,” you pant.  “I want you, …in me.”  

He withdraws his fingers and slows his tongue, stroking the tops of your thighs as he gently kisses those lips a bit, then disappears to get on some protection.  You lengthen and hum as you breathe, the nerves down your body vibrating like power-lines in the humidity.

Your eyes open to him eclipsing over you and you reach up for his neck, wrapping your fingers around whatever you reach and he descends to kiss.  The smell of you on him is familiar but stronger, musky and obscenely hot when mixed with him being close again.  He settles his body on yours and you reach down to find his hardness, shifting your legs apart to collect him in the warmth of your groin and hold him there while you slide your arms over each other.

“Any favourite positions?” you ask, mumbled by his mouth on yours.

“Inside your gorgeous pussy please,” he replies.  

You lift your knees, wrap your legs around his waist, and nudge your heels into his butt to encourage him forward.  With a little scoop, he slips towards your centre and gets half an inch into the heat almost instantly.

“You doing okay?” he checks, nose resting on yours.

“Mmm, I want to feel how thick you are,” you reply, wriggling slightly.  

He doesn’t move or answer so you open your eyes and find him gazing at you, slightly shiny, rosy and eyes heady.  He rumbles an unblinking “Yes ma'am” and slides into you, with little resistance, and as you fill your lungs he shudders his breath.  The hand he has resting on your head holds tight as he furrows his brow at the sensation.

You undulate beneath him and he moans openly at how good it feels, unable to keep himself from moving with you, and for a while you surge together, kissing whatever skin meets your lips, exploring each others dips and corners.

Soon enough, Dean’s rolling becomes rocking, his caresses become grips, and your moans climb again.  He leans up to look down at you both, the hair and slippery shades of red, your body taking his thumping thrusts, and he leans down to kiss and lick at your breasts.  He starts working against you with urgency, lifting a knee to hold you and you pull at his waist.

You feel your groin tightening against the pull and push of him, your swollen lips fallen open with thickness, the pulsing flesh around him flashing with each beat.

Dean leans down and kisses you, smothering a surprised moan as he pulls out completely and says “Turn over.”

You flip faster than ever, his firm hands guiding your hips high as his knees settle outside yours.  He directs himself back to your core, but pauses there to caress your waist.

You puff and look over your shoulder at him.  He smiles slackly and drags a hand down your back.

“You’re so good at this Dean, feel so good, so sweet the way you push me open,” you say in thanks, giving him a little ego fuel for the next phase. “I’m gonna be so sad with the next guy.”

“Huh,” he says, “you’ll teach him, Y/N.”  You smile at each other.  “You mind if we finish here, for a while at least?”

“I don’t mind at all,” you answer and place your hand over his at your waist.

His smile is lopsided, almost sneaky, and he leans over to kiss between your shoulder blades.  “Well, we’re not done quite yet,” he promises.

He slides into you and you moan shortly before he pulls out again and pauses.  His next effort is harder and you revel in the base of him thumping against your ass.  Then he starts to pump into you, a sure, steady beat that has you gasping and leaning against him.  You can hear him cursing under his breath, his fingers snatching to find your curves as he pulls you back over and over again.  

Then his arm has ducked under you and firmly pulled you up.  The change in position has him pushing over your g-spot on each beat.  He generously licks his fingers and finds your clitoris to rub light and furious, his other hand holding you against him by the breast with a nipple between the knuckles.  You cry out at it all and fold your arm back over your shoulder to pull at the back of his neck, unsure of how much more you can take but desperately wishing you could capture this feeling.

He licks by your ear, right at your hairline, his noisy breath wet against you, and the cool tickle is such a contrast that you shudder all over.  

“Oh- God-” he gasps at the sensation, his fingers twitching against you so firmly that you cry out.  His teeth find your neck and he moans as he comes inside you.

You’re thrumming and hot and light.  Your cheeks radiate and your hand clutches his wrist as he cups your singing mound.  He sits back on his heels with you in his lap, his arm round your waist, and lets his softening cock slip out of you while you both gasp and moan and come down.  

Creaking your eyes open, you drag your fingertips up the back of his head, patting while you drop your head back against his shoulder.  He starts kissing around your neck again, full-lipped and humming, hugging and dragging his large hot hands over your torso. He even moves himself a little to watch his reach slide from elbow to thigh while you’re stretched to hold him.  He begins cleaning up, catching the condom, and shuffling back.  “Wait here,” he says quietly, pecking your neck, and is back with a warm flannel before you can even feel the cold.

“A wipe down?” you comment.  “Now you’re just trying to make the rest look terrible.”

He smiles and winks as he takes your hand and leads you under the covers.  

“Oh, no,” you pause, “I shouldn’t stay.”

“I’ll text Sam, see where he’s at.  Keep warm till then?” he offers, and you reluctantly lay down.  

Dean finds his phone and thumbs something in.  He takes a swig of water, offers some to you, slides under the cool covers, wrapping his ridiculous warmth around you, and his phone buzzes back.  A quick look and he reports, “Sam’s out for the night.”

“Should’ve guessed,” you say. “He’s a catch.”

“ _Is_ he now?”

“Well, …I wouldn’t throw him back.”

Dean flicks off the light and snuggles.  His tangling hold is so insistent you give up even moving yourself.  He gets his belly against yours, nudges his nose under your earlobe and let’s his voice vibrate low and threatening against your neck when he asks “If you met me in a bar, would you throw me back?”

 _You?!_ you think.   _You with your 6ft of Fuck-God-on-Earth, your perfect body_ _that’s_ _blissed me senseless,_ _the_ _one night stand who’s making me stay and snuggle… and you’re still not sure…?_

“You?” you breath, swallowing your laugh.  “For you I’d get a bigger boat.”

“Hm,” he smiles against you, kisses your neck, then your jaw, then turns your head so he can kiss your lips, a deep breath flowing in and out of him.  “You mind if I look you up, when I’m next in that big city where you go to your big college?”

“Yes please,” you whisper.

“Good,” he replies, then he starts to kiss you like he’s starting something, not heading off to sleep, and your ears nearly tingle as you realise that _this is how he kisses_ and holy sweet fuck it’s so good you’re intimated all over again.  “We’re not done quite yet.”


End file.
